


This Affiliation with Orange

by Ketchrey



Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: Other, PTSD, RvB Platonic Week, Some survivor’s guilt, ‘opposite sides’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 01:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12378138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketchrey/pseuds/Ketchrey
Summary: Locus draws parallels between two soldiers, the one he betrayed, and the one he ignored.Written for day one of ‘RvB Platonic Week’





	This Affiliation with Orange

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love twisting the knife

 

  
  
His eyes make rings of copper through the sunlight. It wanes, casting down the untailored thicket of his five o’clock shadow, picking out the orange like the heads of wires.

 

The light spiraling through their hole in the canyon is snuffed as the first set of clouds roll in.

“If you’re wondering, the answer is yes. I do consider this to be a fucking waste of time.”

Locus is situated on a rock fixture below Felix's landing, blocking out the squeak of mesh as he swings his legs. There’s been a fair amount of movement down below for him to consider instead. Felix had taken up sentry position on the edge of his platform –what he had claimed at least– and then proceeded to lounge about.

An obnoxious crunch from behind sets Locus rigid. Where had he even _found_ those crackers?

“They actually believe this is their fucking miracle." Felix talks around a mouthful. “Stupid bitch. Stupid, dumb idiots. She’s not playing general, she’s sorority mom to the ‘Gamma Losers’.”

Locus’s concentration doesn't break from the orange and red soldiers below. Earlier in the week, firearms had gone off from this side of the canyon. Ever since that unanticipated rise in the night, he's been monitoring all the Reds more closely.

“They’re dangerous.” He insists.

“They’re a joke.” Felix responds with a snort. “I remember what the losers looked like, how quickly they got caught within an bullet’s trajectory.”

Locus remembers those men. He remembers labelling Felix one of them and then bearing witness on the day he chose to go toe to toe with thirteen feet of Jiralhanae. Locus remembers those open slits down to the skull and how his mind and thoughts had colluded. How Isaac Gates had preserved himself in that first wave of ferocity with an amber seal.

“Dangerous.” He repeats.

“If I didn't know any better, I would think you had concerns.” Felix sounds offended.

..."Several of them can fight."

Felix kicks, catching the swish of Locus’s wolf-tail and nearly the back of his head with it. The flash of a grin pastes across his lips. "Have you even looked at them? They're not anticipating a fight. Please give me a window tomorrow. I’ve been dying to showcase my acting talent."

"I'm still waiting to proceed. The Federal Army has been acting cautious." Locus repositions his rifle stand over the rock face, sweeping stones and dirt away so that he can rest his forearms. "Do we have anything more on the Freelancers?"

“Only what Charon’s got. The guy down there, Washington, they had to lock him up for a bit."

"Will they be providing us with any further information?"

"If we can bullshit its vitality to the mission." Felix cants his neck, eyeing caustically. "Is it vital, partner?”

Felix asks casually, but there’s no mistaking it from a lure.

“Because you’ve got this ‘type’.” Felix goes on, flipping a Ritz with his tongue. "The ‘Survivor Man’, rebels who look like they would cook up worms and filter their own piss. You think you're so fucking subtle? I notice shit.”

“You notice nothing.” Locus returns his attention back down the scope, picking up more movement below. “Do not laugh over my shoulders if I shoot.”

“Right, when have I ever done that?”

“You did it two weeks ago during a bombing run.”

“We were wire-rigging a bowling alley and you had to  _roll_  a grenade to trigger it." Felix crunches. "Yeah, you’d do great without me; missing every punchline and banging the brains out of sociopaths.“

Felix has his leg hanging just a little too far over to hold balance when Locus grabs his ankle and pulls. He goes through a bush on his back, branches crackling under pressure, followed by an explosion of curses and crackers, and Felix's hissing–“Fucking douche!”

  
.  
.

 

She had been silent as he entered the freezer, seeming no more aware than any of the other frozen shells positioned hauntingly around the room. Not while he's approaching, nor when explaining his intentions does the reserved aggression come to fruition. It's only when Locus begins to veer for her rather than her companion that the voice modulator crackles.

“Wash first.” Carolina says, hardly stronger than a croak. “Him. …Help him.” This is the growl of a predator on dying breaths, yet somehow she makes it a threat.

Her breathing doesn't relax and he can hear it running through his own crackling receivers as he turns away from her to switch subjects. If Carolina's inhales are wounded, Washington’s belong to a man under water. Locus tries not to listen to them fall into sync as he goes to work.

A strong jimmy with the hilt of his knife at Washington’s helmet console has Carolina taking a swift breath. "Eyes still open, Wash?”

“Working on it…” Washington’s voice lags on the side of weary.

The helmet seals give out a telling hiss, and Locus shoulders his knife to position himself. Predictably, Washington’s legs are ready to give and without the structure of his armor there’s nothing there to hold him up. He goes down fast, giving Locus less than seconds to grab hold of his arm and soften the blow of falling helmet first to the floor. With Washington guided down, Locus changes course.

“Keep them open.” Carolina preaches while Locus rotates around for her console. “We’re getting out of this.” Words catching on her tongue, she rephrases. “I’ll get us out. Hold out for me just a little longer, Wash.”

Washington grunts into the floor but then utters nothing more. Locus doesn’t roll his eyes completely, because this is all far more disturbing than it is ridiculous.

Shuffling around her defensive stance, Locus picks at her helmet console. Now that he's become familiar with the interface this one goes much faster. Locus trims one more wire and then steps in to provide support as he had before. Carolina’s suit goes loose and the first to drop are her arms with an achy groan. Locus steps in as she sways, only to have the woman stagger past him. Carolina makes it on steps and wobbles, nearly falling on top of Washington where he had spread himself on the ground.

He makes a step to come closer and immediately holds up when Carolina reacts by pulling the knife sheathed above her collar. She puts herself between him and Washington, cornered and wildly defensive.

“I’m not here to kill you.” He says again, aiming for the very fraction of patience he believes is still down there somewhere, stowed deep. “You need help.”

Carolina’s arm, the one she’s using for balance trembles warily against her weight. A sheave of copper swathes across her eyes, slick where it sticks to her scalp and jaw. Her exhale is ragged. “Water.” She rasps, finding the partial bearings to help herself navigate around her partner. “He hasn’t had anything to eat–or drink. Days...”

“My ship won’t carry all of you.” He says, eyeing the flash of her knife. “There’s a break room four floors up. We will get you both situated there.”

 

 

There’s a scar bisecting the cupid’s bow of her lip. It splits like a comet’s trail through her freckles, tattering apart the orange speckles to where the flesh eventually softens at her ear.

 

  
“What’re you doing?”

Washington’s questions have been slowing, but it’s no indication to whether his world has quit spinning. Carolina, under equal duress, has been patient, bent over and therapeutically trying to massage him closer to coherence.

“Re-stimulating circulation.” Carolina says, and looks up from the airtight seal of his under suit. Her smile is tired. “What did you think I was doing?”

Locus stares for a moment, eyes fixed on the two before stepping back into the room. Grif had emptied him of frozen preserves on the flight over, but only recently he had learned there were several compartments available within his own armor. He rummages around with an abdominal section for a moment, circling back around the room.

“Here.” He says, and by means of announcement knocks his offering against Carolina’s shoulder.

She jerks violently, knocking the box out of his grip so that it lands on Washington, setting off an equal jolt of alarm.

…"Your orange one ate most of my food on the flight over.”

She looks back at him, puzzling over the box’s primary colored graphics. The glare lifts when she hears Washington tearing at the top of the box. Locus heads to the other side of the room, offering the space for Carolina to intercept before her partner overexerts himself.

“Where is Grif?” She demands, dumping out the box on Washington’s chest.

"He volunteered to create a distraction so that I could free you both."

"That sure sounds like our guy..." She looks like she could say more, but Washington is dropping crackers and she takes a breather to pick up the pieces he’s missing to feed herself. “...You're not taking part in this one, Wash.”

“Hhhnnm? Why the heck not?”

“You can’t stand up, that's ‘the heck’ why.”

“I can get up,” Washington fits his forearms on the cushions and instantly wobbles, spilling crackers onto the floor. Carolina has to swoop in before he falls off the side of the couch. “…Get me into a snipers nest and I’ll be good to go.”

“Sure. You and Big Bird are gonna lay me down suppressing fire, huh?” Carolina mocks, helping him onto his back. She hangs over him for a moment, frown concentrating as she uses her fingers to flick a crumb caught in his stubble. Their back and forth closes when Carolina pushes the cracker box into his chest and repositions his limbs to secure it.

_“You’re such a douche…”_

Moments later she staggers up behind Locus. Whether it’s by determination or pride that she has bypassed the open couch is unclear, but likely a bit of both.

“I don’t trust you.” She says, and a stumble brings her right up next to him, braced up against the door frame.

“It’s not required that you do.”

“So I won’t.”

"Your quarrel is no longer with me,”

“I don’t trust you, merc.” This tone is much colder than the one she had donned for Washington. “About a year ago my partner and I went toe to toe with a couple of bounty hunters ready to commit to genocide of an entire planet. You’ll have to forgive me for dwelling.”

 

This Carolina doesn’t match the depiction of 'killing machine’ his mind had conjugated her with. Perhaps she never had.

 

Carolina rolls her neck when he ask when she’ll be ready, and then looks like she could be sick. Her angles don’t require light to become edged and fierce, not even while her irises begin to distend like lights blowing out their final fuse. …“I triggered this.” She says. “I'll handle it.”

He follows from a distance as she lowers onto the adjacent couch, concealing his judgement as she struggles with holding her head up.

…“If you're really serious about this ‘good guy’ thing, I could use a shooter who’s not reeling off lines from PBS kids.”

The light doesn't spool through her eyes and illuminate danger, it seeks out the highlights in her hair and bleeds out from the back of her skull. ...There’s no blood running out of auburn roots, off cast by late evening’s sun and trickling down the shattered steps of a temple...

 

She’s comprised of copper... but it’s not _his_ copper.

 

"Just don't kill us." Carolina says quietly, then even quieter and tired she snickers. “…That would just… That’d be the worst."

 


End file.
